The idea is instantly appealing: commission some talented writers to produce a piece on "sport", and that marriage will produce a collection of fine sportswriting. And George O'Brien's collection is a perfect reminder of what fine sportswriting can be, for there is too little of it between these covers.
Now, don't get me wrong, none of the pieces here is bad - but the majority never rise above the level of soft, if well-meaning, memoir. The best sportswriting only glances on "sport"; it is instead about the participant, the individual, and only occasionally is that participant "I".
The fatal flaw in this collection, like that of a cumbersome tribunal of inquiry, is its terms of reference. It reads as if Mr O'Brien rang round (or e-mailed) some writing colleagues or people he admired (in fact, XI of them, which is a reasonable wheeze), and offered them a chance to produce 4,000 words on "sport".
"Oh, but I know nothing about sport," I can hear them say. "That's just the point," Mr O'Brien would reply. "We all know about sport in some manner, and I want you to do a piece about how sport has somehow affected your life."
Regrettably, what Mr O'Brien failed to stipulate (and perhaps next time he will; the exercise is worth repeating) was: "But I don't want any meandering reminiscences of childhood, or friendly lectures about the rules of baseball or the history of golf."
He can say instead, next time, while holding aloft a copy of this first volume, that what he wants is the sort of perfectly-pitched reportage to be found in Conor O'Callaghan's fine, convincing piece on cricket in Dundalk, or in Colum McCann's evocative tale from the handball courts of lower east side Manhattan.
O'Callaghan's "Jolly Good Shot, Old Boy" is one of those unusual occasions when "I" play a significant part. But, equally, the piece is not about cricket, it is instead about what cricket represents in Irish culture - for better or, usually, worse. "There's something about cricket which touches a nerve in the Irish mind in a way no other sport does."
One night, many years ago, when their motley group were having an evening in the nets in the local community hall, they were watched by a group cases" high up in the republican movement. "Within a week a leaflet was being circulated around the nearby housing estates, complaining about the use of their sports centre for an English game like cricket.
"And it worked a treat . . . A few of the lads definitely seemed to get the jitters." But O'Callaghan persevered; he is still in love with the game, and idles away summer afternoons taking on hard cases of a different sort in the fields of North Dublin.
McCann, author of Fishing the Sloe-Black River and This Side of Brightness, has a beautiful touch. Of Vinny, an old, lascivious Italian who's a regular at the local handball court, he writes that, when on court, he "jumps around like a prayer in an air-raid". Most importantly, in "Through the Grey Diamonds", McCann touches the heart of sportswriting: "Perhaps the truth of a personality is more poignantly on display in the midst of sport than anywhere else."
Others deserve honourable mentions: Anthony Cronin has a memorable day at the races in "Winner All Right"; Ulick O'Connor (no stranger to sportswriting), in "The Butterfly and the Baby", can't miss with a subject such as Ali; Jim Lusby has the makings of a deeply affecting piece if he fleshes out the lives of his greyhounding uncles.
But the rest fail to score. The analogy, for writers, is with Michael Jordan: just because he was the greatest basketball player of all time didn't mean he could hit a baseball.
Joe Culley is an Irish Times journalist